My cousin emailed me from Scotland. "Spring time in NYC is nice?" she asked.
I like to say that California has seasons, but ours are subtle (we're talking NorCal, the only California that counts) There is something different about an east coast spring … life literally bursts from the ground, from the branches. It's not subtle, it's explosive.
Our backyard went from snow and ice to dry sticks of hydrangea and piles of soggy leaves to a greening dogwood, climbing hydrangea that has covered the back fence in green, rose buds (already?), ground cover, all sorts of things.
In the slips of parks, neighborhood gardens that have to satisfy an apartment-bound New Yorker's dirt jones, we're seeing jonquils, daffodils, tulips, and hyacinth. My mom helps identify many of the flowers, since my knowledge is limited to, well, about six plants. Bama's book of Flower Fairies has helped expand my knowledge, but it's still pathetic.
Below, jonquil and tulips in the sliver on Sixth Avenue.
Hyacinth. A small one. I think?